title: repercussions
snippet: the whiteness is comforting
genre: angst ;; comfort
character(s): harry ;; hermione
word count: 393
rating: pg
His gaze follows the white flakes drifting past the window, diagonal slants landing in the white blanket smothering the ground. It’s too quiet, too muffled. For the past seven months, there’s been a constant hum and buzz of the activity around him, but now there’s nothing.
Nothing but the white snow to keep him company.
Usually he would be out, sitting outside of the little coffee shop on the corner of the road, or, when the wind was bitter and the rain too wet, just tucked away inside the café. But now the door won’t open and he’s stuck indoors with nothing to see for miles.
He barely hears the crackle of the fireplace flash green before someone clambers out, dusting themselves off carefully on the mat in front of the fire.
‘Harry.’
It’s a female voice. The same female voice. He has an inkling he should know whose voice it is, niggling at the back of his head, but it’s too much effort to think, to properly listen.
‘Harry.’
His eyes narrow as he hears her voice again.
‘Harry.’
He feels anger bubbling. Anger at his ignorance of whose voice it is, anger at the fact that she’s said his name three times, anger at everything.
‘Harry.’
He doesn’t move. He can’t, or he won’t. He’s too tired. He’s been too tired for a long time, but it’s still not long enough.
‘Harry.’
She’s getting annoyed, that much he can tell.
‘Harry.’
There’s a crackle and a flash of green. He thinks she’s gone, but it’s too exhausting to turn around and look.
He lets out a silent breath, watching the glass mist up before turning clear again.
The snow seems like a good place to be in. It’s cold and numbing. It’s white and blank. It doesn’t expect anything of him except to lie in it.
He’s out of the door in seconds, knee-deep in the iciness. He can’t feel anything, not that he’s felt anything for the past few months.
A blob of colour is moving towards him, but he sinks down until he’s chest-deep in the snow and can’t see the blob anymore. There’s nothing to see, nothing to hear, nothing to feel, except for the whiteness of the snow. It’s comforting, in a blank sort of way, he finds, as he lies even deeper into the snow.
‘Potter!’